Ghoul Becomes a Big Brother

We both had agreed that becoming a big brother seemed excellent on paper. Most good ideas do, for that matter. Ghoul, in his own ways, wanted to give back to Knowlton. Good on him. But his ideas were frowned upon in most communities.

“Why would you think turkey fighting would be allowed if cock fighting wasn’t?” I asked.

“I don’t know, man, because it’s never been done before? You gotta admit that was quite the show. I’m just glad none of the little fellas got hurt.”

I couldn’t come right out and say it, but I agreed.

We pulled into the State Police Barracks a few towns over, where Ghoul was to report for a few hours of special community services. His fantastic night of turkey fights; fun for the entire family! didn’t go over to well with the town. He would be serving time right now, if it hadn’t been for our good friend Guy Stone, sergeant to the state police, saved the day.

“I didn’t even think the Big Brother program still existed.”

“Me neither,” said Ghoul. “Oh look, that must be little Timmy right there.”

There was nothing little about Timmy; he was massive. Tattoos with acute awfulness covered his face and neck with ominous phrases of brutality to others. I was uncomfortable enough to fear for my immediate well being. And I had to let this… thing into my car.

We got out. Guy unlocked the shackles and ran inside.

“Heya sport! You must be little Timmy. Nice to meet you,” said Ghoul.

“It’s Lil Tim, asshole. Let’s bounce, I gots to get my bae.” he ordered.

“What’s a bae?” Ghoul whispered.

“I have no idea. Maybe it is something at the dry cleaners? Like a suit?”

“Oh, makes sense,” Lil Tim shoved pass Ghoul and made for the passenger side. “Wanna go see a movie afterwards? Or maybe get something to eat?”

“Man, didn’t you hear a word I said? Shut up and let’s go.”

I squeezed in the back, on Ghoul’s side. Lil Tim reclined until I we were near eye level.

“So why does everyone call you lil Tim?”

If this was going to go south, which it did, I wanted to be the one steering the carriage to hell, with this asshole in the back.

“What, you want something? Want to get jacked-up?”

We drove in a suffocating silence that choked my senses and the existential queries that went along with it: Why are we here? Who is God and is there even one to begin with? What happens when we die?

And what the hell is a ‘Bae’?

Lil Tim began to suddenly laugh. It was more of a chortle that reminded me of the Hyena’s from the Lion King.

“Yo homes, what’s that shit on your face?”

He had a knife! I don’t know how it happened but there was a blade, inches from Ghoul’s cheek and the rotting goop dangling off like a wet booger.

“I wouldn’t do that. Could be contagious,” I added.

“So is a stab in the kidneys,” he replied.

“How about some music?” Ghoul tried his best to stay positive while avoiding the intense kerfuffle afoot. I didn’t know how long it would last, though. He thumbed a preset. Led Zeppelin’s No Quarter was playing.

“What is this shit, man?”

Lil Tim switched over to a rap station playing an offensive beat of vulgarity that I knew would not stand. Ghoul turned the station back; Robert Plant was still singing and Ghoul was fuming.

“Rule number one: Don’t touch my radio,” he said

“Or what? You gonna get that po-po on me? Guy stone is a joke, you ain’t ‘doin shit, yo.”

Ghoul’s hand was slapped away and we returned once more to the obnoxious bass and ridiculous verses.

“Sam, it’s time, do it.”

“Are you sure? I thought you said you never wanted help to—

“I said do it!”

I reached underneath the driver’s seat, fishing for the emergency roadside kit. My fingers brushed against it and I inched to a grasp. Inside, underneath the first aid kit was a syringe. There was no hesitation, no second guessing. I removed the cap and rammed the needle into Lil Tim’s bulbous neck.

He was out cold.

“What now?” I asked.

Ghoul pulled over, reached into the middle console. He started dialing, then paused.

“Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t of asked you to do that, but I will not stand for aggression towards the ‘Zep. Not ever.”

His eyes! I’ve never seen such rage in those ghastly, decomposed orbs of dilapidated mush.

“But what are we going to do about Lil Tim?”

“I’ll take care of it.”

He finished dialing, and Guy Stone was on speaker.

“Hey it’s Ghoul,”

“I am not picking him up. He’s your problem now.”

“So you don’t care that he fell into the ice while we were ice skating at Knowlton Lake and is probably dead from hypothermia?”

“I am going to ignore that until tonight. By then, it’ll be too frigid to safely perform a search and we’ll assume that the deep waters took him.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“No, thank you.”

I still don’t understand what a ‘Bae’ is to this day.

© Copyright John Potts Jr 2016 – 2017

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